


Red is the Rose

by Llama1412



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, Magic, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Self-Worth Issues, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27380998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama1412/pseuds/Llama1412
Summary: When Roche gives Iorveth a rose of remembrance, Iorveth doesn't know what to think. Legend has it that if you give a rose to someone you love, then it’ll live forever, but surely that can't be true. After all, Roche is his enemy.
Relationships: Iorveth & Saskia, Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Comments: 25
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Did I start a new fic and write 3 chapters in one day? Yeah, kinda. I promise I am still working on [(Im)Perfect Strangers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26116723) though! And... all the other ones...

Iorveth was pretty sure his heart rate had not slowed down in the slightest over the past several days. He felt anxious and on edge and it was entirely the fault of Vernon fucking Roche.

It started during their last confrontation. Iorveth and Roche always fought hard, but this time, their fight had taken them into the gardens of Cáelmewedd, where the roses of remembrance grew. Iorveth hadn’t thought much of it – after all, the roses were nurtured by blood. If he spilt Roche’s here, so much the better.

Except he and Roche were evenly matched and they fought for hours, neither gaining the upper hand. Iorveth’s limbs trembled under his weight and his palms were sweaty against the hilts of his swords. Roche, Iorveth could see, was panting for breath and his chaperone was damp and sticking to his neck. Neither of them had much energy left, but dammit, Iorveth  _ refused _ to lose against Roche.

Roche was probably driven on by the same determination, damn him. 

The sun was setting, tinting the sky a dusty red, when Iorveth’s reserves gave out. He twirled to parry Roche’s sword and follow it up with a swipe with his second blade – but as soon as Roche’s sword touched his, his fingers betrayed him, deciding they could no longer resist the pressure. His arms collapsed before his attack could make contact, and his prized elven blades clattered to the ground.

He and Roche blinked at each other in surprise, then Roche slowly lowered his blade. 

Iorveth scowled, “do it already.”

Roche made to take a step towards him – and then  _ his _ legs gave out, and he crumpled to the ground with a grunt of surprise. 

Iorveth laughed, pointedly ignoring the fact that his arms would not listen to his commands.

Roche huffed, throwing a rock at him. Iorveth dodged, and sank to the ground himself. He and Roche blinked at each other again, slowly digesting the fact that they appeared to be at an impasse, neither able to finish the other off, even though they were both weak and vulnerable and easy to kill right now.

“So…” Roche drawled after several long minutes of tense silence.

“So?” Iorveth glared.

Roche looked around and Iorveth was pissed that his enemy would consider him so little of a threat that he could afford not to be watched.

Except it was kind of true. In this state, he really was no threat. Iorveth growled.

“You play gwent?” Roche asked casually, and Iorveth stared at him in disbelief. Roche shrugged, “we can hardly just sit in silence waiting to see who recovers first.”

“Yes, we can,” Iorveth argued, even though he had no particular love for tense silences. 

“So,” Roche ignored him, “do you play gwent?”

Iorveth frowned, debated which was worse – admitting that he couldn’t move his arms or admitting that he kind of did want to see what playing gwent with Roche would be like. The other commander was known for his tactical acumen, after all.

Roche sighed, something like disappointment in his posture. “Oooor we could just sit here.”

“Ugh, fine,” Iorveth groaned, making a show of giving in to hide the trembling in his arm as he reached for his deck.

The corner of Roche’s mouth quirked upwards and Iorveth wanted to punch him. SInce his arms couldn’t fulfill his wish, he set his Scoia’tael deck out instead. 

Roche reached into the pouch on his belt and pulled out a red Monster deck. “Believe it’s your move,” he said.

Iorveth frowned at him and, just because, decided that instead of claiming the first turn, he was going to use his Scoia’tael faction perk to make Roche go first.

Roche smirked when he said as much, and then played a fucking Arachas Behemoth, which mustered four other cards onto the playing field, giving Roche a total score of 22. On the first fucking move.

Iorveth scowled and slapped down a Biting Frost card, instantly reducing all of Roche’s frontline cards to one point each. The Arachas Behemoth was still 6 points, but Roche’s total score was now 10, and that was much easier to deal with.

So of course, Roche played a fucking 10-point Leshen. Iorveth glared harder and threw down the Geralt of Rivia card, leaving him 5 points behind Roche and extremely ready to punch Roche’s smarmy face.

Roche played an 8-point Kayran card, and Iorveth chewed on his lip, deciding to play his own card. His namesake was worth 10 points, giving Roche only a 3 point lead. Why the fuck had he let Roche go first again?

“Would’ve expected you to play Northern Realms,” Iorveth said, vaguely hoping to distract his opponent with conversation. 

Roche shrugged, slapping a Crone card onto the field. Its 6-point value dropped to 1 because of the Biting Frost card Iorveth had played, but it also summoned two other cards from Roche’s deck.

Iorveth narrowed his eyes. Roche was plotting something, which likely meant he had a way to clear the weather effects and dammit, that was the only thing Iorveth had giving him a fighting chance here. 

He pursed his lips and played the one spy card the Scoia’tael deck had. Mysterious Elf gave no additional points to Roche when added to his side of the field  _ and _ it let Iorveth draw two more cards. Another Biting Frost card – thankfully – and Milva, a ranged combat card that would add +1 to his Iorveth card. That would likely prove helpful – especially since his leader card ability would let him double the strength of all his ranged combat cards.

Roche, the fucking bastard, played a 1-point Ghoul card that summoned 2 other Ghouls from his deck. Since they were already worth only 1 point, the Biting Frost card did not affect them. 

“I have a Northern Realms deck,” Roche answered Iorveth’s question, “but I prefer to play Monsters. More fun.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re a fucking bastard,” Iorveth said, throwing down the Milva card and bringing his total score to 36 – a 2-point lead over Roche. 

“Pot, kettle, all that,” Roche said cheerily, playing a 7-point Archespore card. Iorveth swore and the corner of Roche’s mouth ticked upwards. “You know, this card always reminds me of this batshit Kaedweni soldier.”

Iorveth’s forehead wrinkled. “An archespore does? What, did he get eaten by one?” He sucked on his teeth and played his leader ability, doubling the strength of his Iorveth and Milva cards. Now, he had a solid lead over Roche, 57 to 41. 

“Nah,” Roche huffed a laugh and played a Clear Weather card, removing Iorveth’s Biting Frost effect and bringing Roche’s score up to 68. Fucking bastard. “It’s the flower. There’s this dude, he calls himself The Petal. No joke.”

“What the fuck?” Iorveth sent Roche a baffled look and played his Saskia card, making his score 77. He might actually be able to win this.

Roche nodded, “apparently, he puts flower petals in the mouths of every foe he kills. Which like, I’m wondering how that’s possible in the thick of battle, but whatever.” Roche played his leader card ability, doubling the strength of  _ all _ of his close combat cards. Iorveth did the math in his head and frowned. Thank the gods he’d drawn another Biting Frost card.

Iorveth’s weather card brought Roche’s total points from 112 down to an entirely beatable 45. “Is there a point to this story?”

Roche shrugged, laying down a Commander’s Horn and doubling the strength of all his ranged combat cards. Iorveth narrowed his eyes at Roche. That still only brought Roche’s score up to 63. 

Iorveth added a 2-point Elven Skirmisher to his ranged combat row, and it summoned 3 copies of the card from his deck. The 8 point gain doubled because of his Commander’s Horn, and Iorveth smirked in satisfaction as his total points rose to 93. Surely Roche couldn’t beat that.

As if to prove his point, Roche played a 2-point Harpy card to  _ his _ ranged combat row, and even with the Commander’s Horn boost, Iorveth still had a 26 point lead. He sucked on his teeth and decided to pass – Roche only had 2 cards left. It was doubtful he could make up the difference, and even if he did, Iorveth would cream him next round.  _ He  _ had 5 cards left, and while they were lower point values than Iorveth would prefer, the sheer number should lead to victory.

Roche met Iorveth’s eye, smirked, and then played a fucking Clear Weather card, removing the disadvantage on his  _ entire _ front row. The fucker won the round with an absurd 134 points, and Iorveth seethed.

“Motherfucking son of a bitch,” he swore and Roche laughed, a light boisterous sound that reverberated strangely in Iorveth’s chest.

“I win,” Roche grinned, gathering up his cards and then rising to his feet easily, apparently entirely recovered.

Iorveth tensed. Damn it all – Roche had distracted him with the gwent game and he’d forgotten what this  _ really _ was: a race against time to see which of them would get to kill the other. 

Given the stiffness in Iorveth’s arms, Roche had fully and completely defeated him once more.

Well, Iorveth supposed everyone had to die sometime. And to die at the hands of Vernon Roche – that was acceptable. If he had to go, Iorveth wouldn’t have chosen anyone else to do it. Roche had  _ earned _ that honor in the long course of their opposition to each other.

Iorveth swallowed, lifting his head high. “Do it, then,” he demanded, and he was relieved that his voice didn’t shake at all.

Roche tilted his head, “wonder if I should take a page from ‘The Petal’s’ book.”

“What?”

“You’d look good with petals in your mouth, shutting you up,” Roche said, and Iorveth just blinked at him. 

The human hadn’t drawn his sword yet, and while Iorveth would 100% have gloated over his victory too, he really, really wished that Roche would just get it over with.

Instead of pulling out his weapon, Roche reached out to the rose bush they had collapsed near and neatly plucked a red blossom. Iorveth glared – how dare this human pick a rose of remembrance from one of the last remaining elven gardens in existence? Did he have any idea how  _ powerful _ roses of remembrance were? How valuable?

Not that it mattered. Supposedly, unless gifted to someone you loved, roses of remembrance would wilt once plucked. That was probably the only thing that had prevented bandits from destroying the whole garden.

Roche turned back and approached Iorveth, stopping a blade’s length in front of him. Smart. Iorveth debated if he could throw his sword to make up for the distance anyway. 

Only instead of slitting his throat, Roche tapped the rose against Iorveth’s nose, the silky petals tickling across his skin. Iorveth tried to raise his arms to swat at the flower, but the way his muscles screamed in agony reminded him that anything more dexterous than playing cards was apparently still beyond him.

Roche smirked. “Defeated by a dh’oine. How does it feel?”

Iorveth scowled, keeping his mouth closed even as rose petals brushed against his upper lip.

“Seems a shame,” Roche continued, “ruining a pretty bloom like this by stuffing it in your mouth.” 

Iorveth glared, gritting his teeth and pointedly not opening his mouth, even though he dearly wanted to respond. Fucking Roche. 

“Well,” Roche pulled the rose away from Iorveth’s face and tore off a few outer petals. “I suppose a rose for the thorn in my side works.” 

Then, catching Iorveth entirely off guard, Roche tucked the stem of the flower behind Iorveth’s ear, hot fingers brushing across sensitive skin in the process. Iorveth tried not to shiver, but he couldn’t help the way his mouth dropped open in surprise. Had – had Roche just gifted him a rose of remembrance? Did the man have any idea what that  _ meant!? _ Why would he do that!?

Iorveth’s confused thoughts were cut off when those same blazing hot fingers brushed across his lower lip as Roche slid two fingers into his mouth to press several rose petals against his tongue. 

He wasn’t sure what emotion the noise he made was intended to portray, but it just made Roche’s smirk widen. 

“I won’t kill you,” Roche said, his voice low and rough and sending something shivery down Iorveth’s spine. “I’d rather you live, live with the knowledge that you are only alive because  _ I _ let you live.”

Roche’s fingers were still in his gaping mouth, and Iorveth could taste the salty sweat on Roche’s skin around the lightness of the rose petals. He swallowed tightly, staring up at Roche with a wide eye.

Roche bent forward until his breath fluttered against Iorveth’s ear and again, Iorveth had to fight not to shudder. “Until next time, Iorveth,” Roche murmured against Iorveth’s ear, and as the human stepped back, his fingers slid out of Iorveth’s mouth, leaving the petals behind.

Then, casual as anything, Roche turned around and strode back out into the forest while Iorveth continued to gap like an idiot.

Roche had long since disappeared by the time Iorveth shook himself out of his daze and spit out the petals. Dammit, petals from roses of remembrance were powerful and valuable – it was only right to keep them. He definitely was not at all influenced by the memory of Roche’s fingers against his tongue.

Iorveth shook himself again and stowed the petals away and snatched the rose from behind his ear. Shouldn’t it already start to wilt? Surely it was just a matter of time.

  
After all, it wasn’t as if  _ Roche _ loved  _ him.  _ Of course the flower would wilt.

* * *

It wasn’t wilting. It had been three days and the rose of remembrance  _ wasn’t wilting.  _ There wasn’t even the slightest hint of it drooping. In fact, if anything, once Iorveth had snuck the rose into the Scoia’tael base – the last thing he needed was everyone gossiping about who had given him a rose of remembrance – and placed the rose in a vase with water, it almost seemed even more radiant and beautiful. 

Iorveth hated it. He hated the way that he couldn’t stop checking on the rose, hated the way that his eye traced the blossom any time he was in the same room with it, hated the way that carrying the petals in a pouch over his armor made him feel…  _ weird.  _ Special, almost. After all, how many these days could boast that someone had gifted  _ them _ a rose of remembrance?

Except Roche obviously didn’t know what it meant. Probably. Even if he  _ did,  _ surely he would’ve expected the rose to wilt… right?

It wasn’t as if Roche could  _ actually _ be in love with Iorveth. That was ridiculous. Literally every time they had met each other, they’d been attempting to kill the other. How could anyone develop  _ feelings _ in that kind of situation?

But the rose remained as vibrant and lovely as ever even as more days passed, and Iorveth’s blood pressure was the highest it had ever been and his medic was starting to worry.

Maybe the legends were wrong? Maybe they were just… weirdly magically powerful totally normal roses?

Except if that were the case, it  _ still _ would have wilted, and when Iorveth examined the rose two weeks later, there wasn’t a single hint of anything unhealthy about it. The rose was unnaturally alive, beautiful and sweet-scented and driving Iorveth absolutely insane.

“Whatever has you so stressed,” Imadia, his medic, said, frowning down at the gauge of the blood pressure cuff around Iorveth’s arm, “you need to figure out a way to decompress. Talk about it, throw a rock at it, take apart a few training dummies over it, whatever. If this keeps up, you’re going to be in no shape to lead the Scoia’tael and I’d hate to have to declare you unfit.”

Iorveth scowled at her. “I’ve  _ tried.  _ I just – it’s not – ugh,” he scrubbed his free hand over his face. Maybe he  _ should _ talk about it. If nothing else, Imadia could confirm if the legends were true. He cleared his throat, avoiding her gaze, “what do you know about roses of remembrance?”

Imadia blinked at him in complete bafflement for a long minute, then leaned forward to peel the cuff off of his arm. “I take it this is entirely idle curiosity and nothing more?” she said, sarcasm rich in her voice.

“Absolutely,” he agreed, completely ignoring her tone.

Imadia’s mouth twisted in exasperation. “Well, they’re incredibly rare nowadays, but once upon a time, they were used to propose marriage. By gifting one, the giver promised true love for all time.”

Iorveth bit his lip, still determinedly avoiding Imadia’s eyes. “Are the legends true? Something about the flower not wilting?”

“I doubt it,” she shrugged again, “any plant wilts once it’s been plucked.”

“But they are magic, right?” A spike of alarm had his spine straightening. The rose Roche had given him was still alive, and a normal rose definitely would have wilted by now. That had to be magic, right?

“I’m not a sorceress,” Imadia said, “but even I know magic has a cost. In order for magic to keep a rose alive, there would have to be some kind of, I dunno, exchange? Payment for the life energy, so to speak.”

“Where would that come from?”

“Well, it wouldn’t. That’s the point.” 

“Oh.” Iorveth gnawed on his lower lip, “except it’s definitely still alive, so that’s gotta come from  _ somewhere,  _ right?”

Imadia’s eyebrow arched. “Iorveth,” she drew her words out slowly, “do you have a rose of remembrance?”

Iorveth gulped audibly and he watched real shock pass over Imadia’s face. 

“How!?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he grunted, “point is, it’s been two weeks and the rose hasn’t wilted  _ at all.  _ That’s gotta be magic, right?”

Imadia’s expression slowly changed to delight and Iorveth wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. “Someone gave you a rose of remembrance,” she grinned. “And it’s still alive, so you’re wondering if the legends are true.” 

She looked downright gleeful and Iorveth mourned the illusion of privacy. It was only a matter of time before she pulled the full story out of him.

“Well? Are they?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Imadia’s smile turned sympathetic and he hated it with every fiber of his being. “I told you what I know – I genuinely thought it  _ couldn’t _ be true. But if yours is still alive…”

“You said it would have to draw on some sort of energy, right? To pay for life?” Iorveth asked desperately. “So it’s probably just enchanted or something, right?”

“Well, according to legend, I’d say it’s the love that pays for the life. Right? ‘If you gift one to someone you love, it will never wilt so long as the love remains true.’ Soooooo,” she waggled her eyebrows and Iorveth stared at her in horror, “who’s the special elf? Or – oh! Did that dragonslayer you adore give you a rose of remembrance?”

Iorveth blanched. There was no way in hell he could admit that it was Vernon fucking Roche who had given him the rose. No way.

Who would even believe that? It was absurd, absolute unbelievable! Iorveth had  _ been there _ and he still couldn’t believe it!

Imadia poked him and he batted at her fingers. “Don’t be stupid. There’s no such thing as ‘true love’. We’re both old enough to know that.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say  _ that.  _ Sure, there’s no one singular person who is made for another. But why should that mean someone couldn’t love another deeply and truly?”

Iorveth just gave her a look, twisting his wrist in a vague gesture to, well, all of him. Who could truly love  _ him!?  _ After all the things he had done, after all the blood on his hands? 

Even Isengrim, who had as much blood on his hands as Iorveth did, wouldn’t have been able to claim his love was deep and true. Even  _ Cedric,  _ whose love had lasted for a full century, found the blood on Iorveth’s hands too much for that love to hold true.

“Oh, Iorveth,” Imadia cupped worn hands around his face, “you are worthy of love. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean that others can’t.”

Iorveth snorted, jerking his chin out of her grasp. “I know what I am. I know what I  _ chose _ to become for our freedom.”

“Iorveth–”

He shook his head, “nevermind. The point is – there’s gotta be some sort of enchantment or something on the rose, right?”

Imadia shrugged, a look of motherly concern on her face that Iorveth wanted both to run away from and indulge in. “You’d have to ask a sorceress. But we all know how you feel about  _ them.” _

“Not one of them would hesitate to sacrifice another life if it furthered their goals,” Iorveth snarled.

“Well, then you’ll just have to believe the legends. Whoever gave you that rose loves you, Iorveth.”

“That’s not possible,” Iorveth pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off the ache building behind his eyes. “Ugh, Saskia’s working with a sorceress, but like fuck am I giving her any more information than she needs to know.”

Imadia shrugged. “In that case, instead of stressing so much over if the legends are true, why don’t you try believing in them?” At his dark look, she frowned and said, “or you can work yourself up into a heart attack or nervous breakdown. If you can’t believe it, then at least try distracting yourself from it.”

Iorveth grimaced, “I’ll try.”

After a moment’s silence, Imadia began, “so…”

“I’m not telling you who it was,” he said firmly.

She tsked, “I’ll just have to keep guessing then.”

“Ugh,” Iorveth groaned, getting up to leave this entire conversation far, far behind. Perhaps he could do a supply check. That would keep him occupied and distracted for a good while, at least.

Grabbing a trapped nekker and throwing it into the clearing to divert the arachas that guarded their supply stores was simple enough, and Iorveth made his way inside the cave, headed straight towards the weapons. It was always best to start a supply check with something interesting – Iorveth had learned that many, many years ago.

He was running his fingers over the various arrow tips they had for crossbows and longbows, ensuring they still had plenty of silver, when he heard a strange noise from deeper in the cave. Iorveth turned towards the sound, immediately on guard, and drew his knife, ready for anything.

Anything except the butchered head of King Demavend of Aedirn and a man calling himself a Kingslayer who claimed he could add King Foltest of Temeria’s head to the collection.

Suddenly, the rose of remembrance was the furthest thing from his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Planning to assassinate Roche's king is not an easy decision.

The problem with having set the rose of remembrance in a vase next to his bed was that Iorveth was forced to see it. Every single day, he woke up and plotted the best way to assassinate Roche’s king, and every single day, he was faced with the fact that the rose still had not wilted.

“You’re working with an assassin!?” Saskia hissed, and Iorveth jerked his focus back to the present. 

They were hiding out on the edge of the forest, just past where Temerian land turned to Aedirnian soil. It was a good meeting spot, a halfway point between his base in the Temerian forests and Saskia’s home in the Aedirnian city of Vergen. 

Well, sort of half way. Half way when considering one of their number was  _ actually _ a large, flying dragon, and the other one of them had to  _ walk.  _

Gods, what Iorveth wouldn’t give for wings. Just for a little while.

At any rate, his association with the Kingslayer was not exactly common knowledge. “How do you know that? Do we have a leak?”

Saskia shook her head. “Philippa told me. She said Demavend’s assassin had gone to hide with the Scoia’tael.”

Fucking sorceresses. Of  _ course _ she’d somehow magically eavesdropped on him. Iorveth frowned deeply. At least Saskia didn’t know  _ everything. _

Though… if they were going to work together to make a new state where elves and humans and dwarves and halflings and all others could live side by side as equals, then she should probably know what he was willing to do.

“I am,” Iorveth answered Saskia’s question carefully. “We have mutual goals.”

“You’re planning another one,” she realized.

He nodded sharply, holding up a hand to pacify her immediate outrage, “no, wait, listen. This isn’t just bloodlust. It’s  _ strategic.  _ Look at what Demavend’s death has accomplished already – people in Aedirn support your leadership more than they do Prince Stennis’s. You’ll be able to establish a new state without facing war from Aedirn. Well, uh, not another one.” Saskia had, after all, already defeated the official Aedirian army. With a motley crew of peasants and sailors and nonhumans, no less. 

“We face impending war with Kaedwen, so forgive me if I find that less than reassuring,” Saskia said tightly. “We can’t undo what’s already been done. But Iorveth, do you  _ really _ want to do it again? To assassinate a king–”

“Is something you’d never do, I know. That’s why you’re the one we all follow, Saskia. You live by a code of honor. But I don’t _ ,  _ and I will do  _ anything  _ for elven freedom from human tyranny. King or beggar, what difference does it make?”

Saskia huffed, “on my honor, I should not let you carry through with this.” She pursed her lips, giving him a narrow eyed look, “convince me why you need to do this.”

“Foltest’s persecution of nonhumans has been accelerating rapidly. Before long, even the nonhumans who have forgotten what it means not to cower in front of humans will be purged from Temeria, if Foltest has his say.” Iorveth met Saskia’s gaze steadily as he explained. He could do this, could convince her that it was for the best, even if she would never dirty her own hands that way.

Besides, they both knew that if she wanted to stop him, she would have to kill him to do it.

“Foltest is an expansionist. Just during the past year, he’s annexed Brugge and Sodden. Do you really think there’s any chance he won’t come for us?”

“We can defeat armies,” Saskia crossed her arms.

“Kaedwen  _ and _ Temeria? And what if Redania decides to make a play for it? The Pontar Valley is richer in resources than the rest of Aedirn combined. Everyone wants a piece of it. You really think your peasant force and my Scoia’tael are enough to fight a battle on three potential fronts?”

“That doesn’t mean the king needs to be assassinated!”

“Foltest has no legitimate heirs. Once he’s out of the picture, the nobles and barons with fight amongst themselves for control of the land. Expansion will be the  _ last _ thing on their minds. Exterminating the Scoia’tael will be a lower priority. And who knows, maybe whoever takes control will actually be slightly less of a fucking racist shitbag.”

“That seems unlikely,” Saskia admitted reluctantly. “I don’t like it. But I don’t need to, do I?”

Iorveth shrugged, “I’d prefer not to try to fight a dragon.”

“This particular dragon is tired of fighting. I want to  _ build,  _ dammit. I want to remind all of us that we’re more than the desperate things we do to stay alive.”

Iorveth felt his mouth pulling into a smile. “That’s why we follow you.”

Saskia smiled softly back at him, then her eyes twinkled with mischief. “You mean it’s  _ not _ because of the legendary dragonslaying?”

Iorveth snorted. It had been his idea to build up the legend Saskia would need to be by claiming to slay a dragon. After all, she could, quite literally, make one appear. Or disappear.

Even after all the times he’d seen it, Iorveth was still astonished how quickly Saskia could switch between forms. 

“Dragons are kinda magic, right?” he thought aloud, tilting his head. 

Saskia arched a perfect eyebrow. “In a sense, we are old creatures, connected to the magic of the world. But we are not mages.”

“Fuck mages,” Iorveth grumbled, chewing on his lip before deciding to ask, “do you know anything about roses of remembrance? About what keeps them alive?”

Now both of Saskia’s eyebrows rose. “Roses of remembrance? Why, did someone give you one?”

Iorveth determinedly looked anywhere but at her.

“Wait, really!? Holy shit,  _ who!?” _

“It doesn’t matter,” he grit out. “I just – I’m trying to understand why it’s still alive. It’s been a month and it hasn’t wilted in the slightest.”

Saskia’s surprise morphed into a sappy expression and Iorveth was not at all ready to hear what would make her look like  _ that.  _

“I thought elves had legends about them? Roses of remembrance grow only where blood has been spilt, and if plucked or sold, they wilt – unless the rose is gifted to a loved one. The legend doesn’t actually specify romantic love, but you two-leggeds love to pretend that’s the only type of love.”

“I’m more stuck on the  _ love _ part,” Iorveth said. “What I don’t get is  _ how _ the rose stays alive. Because that – it’s definitely not love. It can’t be.”

Saskia gave him a soft look, “of course it can. In fact, love is one of the most powerful magics there is. One of the only ones that non-mages can access, no matter their species, too.”

“Wait, what? You’re talking about it like there’s some, I dunno, living energy called ‘love’. It’s just an emotion.”

“‘Just’ an emotion?” Saskia cocked an eyebrow, “what makes you think that all emotions aren’t so powerful? You’ve seen cases where hateful words have cast curses. Is it so hard to believe that love, likewise, can be magical?”

“Yes.” Saskia gave him a  _ look,  _ and Iorveth sighed and tried to explain. “Look, it  _ can’t _ be love, okay? Romantic, platonic, familial, whatever the fuck – it can’t be any of them! We’re  _ enemies!  _ There’s no way he can love me!”

Saskia blinked. “Enemies?  _ Who _ gave you the rose?”

Iorveth’s jaw snapped shut and Saskia sighed. 

“Enemies or not, roses of remembrance live off of the power of love. So I would say you may need to reassess that relationship.” He scowled at her, but she ignored him, eyes narrowed in thought. “You have a lot of enemies,” she said slowly, “but not many could get close enough to you to fall in love without losing their heads.”

He shut his eyes, knowing what was coming and not at all prepared to deal with it. 

“What’s that guy’s name, that commander who’s the only special forces guy in the north you haven’t defeated? He’s Temerian, right? Leads the Blue Stripes. But fuck, what was his name?”

Iorveth sighed heavily. “Vernon Roche.”

“Yes! That’s the one! Wow, he really gave you a rose of remembrance?”

“See! It’s unbelievable!” He pointed at her, gesturing wildly. “There’s no possible way Vernon fucking Roche could actually  _ love _ me. Come on!”

“It appears you’re mistaken,” Saskia shrugged, a slight smirk building on her face. “But the  _ real  _ question is, how do  _ you _ feel about  _ him? _ He gifted you a rose, right? So he’s probably waiting for a response.”

“I doubt he knows what it means,” Iorveth dodged and Saskia huffed.

“Iorveth, please tell me under what circumstance your enemy might gift you a rose and  _ not _ intend it as a proposition.”

He blinked. She did kind of have a point. Especially considering the  _ way _ Roche had given it to him. He sucked on his lower lip, remembering the taste of Roche’s skin against his tongue. If – if Roche  _ did _ somehow love him, then… yeah, okay, Iorveth could see how what happened could be considered a proposition. 

But Roche could hardly have expected him to respond! How would he have even been able  _ to _ respond? They hadn’t seen each other since the fight that day. From Iorveth’s intelligence, Roche and his unit had been recalled to the capital. Probably to assist Foltest with some new war effort. Roche was Foltest’s attack dog, after all.

Iorveth swallowed, a sudden wave of cold chilling his spine. Roche had been Foltest’s servant for most of his life, from what intel Iorveth had been able to gather on him. The first record of a Vernon Roche appearing in Temeria, in fact, was in an edict from the king, enrolling Roche in the military. Any who knew Roche knew that his loyalty to king and country was boundless.

And Iorveth was going to kill his king. Proudly.  _ Happily.  _

How long would the rose live after that? 

“So?” Saskia poked Iorveth. “How do you feel about him?”

Iorveth shook his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he croaked. “It won’t last. Not after Foltest is assassinated.”

Saskia’s expression grew serious. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“Yeah,” Iorveth said, “I do.”

* * *

Iorveth pushed the vase with the rose of remembrance away, hiding it behind other plants. He  _ should _ have stored it away somewhere, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from checking daily if any of the petals had started to wilt.

They hadn’t. 

Every day, Iorveth worked with the Kingslayer to finalize their assassination plans. Every day, Iorveth grew closer to the day the rose would inevitably wilt.

Every day, he decided to go forward with it anyway. What was Iorveth’s love life when held against all the good being rid of Foltest would do?

Who cared if it drove another person too far for ‘true love’ to stand?

Iorveth had known all along that he wasn’t truly lovable anyway. 

4 months and 1 week after Roche had gifted him the rose, Iorveth and his men rowed boats down the Pontar, towards the castle the Temerian army was gathering to take.

4 months, 2 weeks, and 3 days after Roche had given him the rose, King Foltest was assassinated, his throat slit amidst the celebration of his army’s victory. 

4 months, 2 weeks, and 5 days afterwards, witnesses reported that Scoia’tael units with blue-striped trophies helped the Kingslayer escape.

4 months and 3 weeks afterwards, the rose showed the first signs of wilting, it’s color fading from a vivid deep red to a dusty pink. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of the Witcher 2 begin to unfold, starting with Roche and two companions confronting Iorveth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned for mentions and discussion of rape. Nothing happens to any of the characters in this chapter, but the widespread rape of elves is discussed.

Iorveth had anticipated this conversation. As soon as his spies had reported that Roche and the Blue Stripes had set sail towards Flotsam, the trading post that was surrounded by Iorveth’s forest, he’d known this confrontation was but a matter of time.

He pretended to be unaffected, lounging in open view on a tree branch, playing his flute. Vernon Roche approached him on the path from the riverbed, flanked on one side by a witcher with a sword on his back, a red-haired sorceress on the other side.

Iorveth hated sorceresses.

He kept playing, finishing the song verse before lowering his flute, just as Roche turned to the sorceress to explain who he was.

Iorveth preferred to make his own introduction. He rose to his feet, tucking his flute away and began, “Vernon Roche! Special Forces Commander for the last four years. Servant of the Temerian king. Responsible for the Pacification of the Mahakaman foothills. Hunter of elves, murderer of women and children.” He looked down into Roche’s eyes and saw the betrayal and anguish there. Instead of thinking about it, Iorveth hid behind his sneering introduction, clapping his hands mockingly as he continued, “twice decorated for valor on the field of battle.”

Roche cut him off with a snarl, pointing at him with an angry stab, “Iorveth – a regular son of a whore!”

A muscle in Iorveth’s jaw twitched and he ground his teeth together. 

“You aided the man who slew my king,” Roche accused, a torrent of grief and anger and despair in his voice.

Iorveth laughed, a harsh, ugly sound that made all three of the people below him flinch. “Then I’ve done you a great service.”

Roche growled, “how dare you!?”

Iorveth scoffed, “how dare  _ you?  _ Does it please you, to follow a man who encourages widespread rape and murder? To follow a genocidal madman who believes all except humans should die, preferably painfully.”

The sorceress flinched at his words, and the Witcher’s lips pressed together tightly, but Roche’s fury overshadowed any discomfort he may have felt, and Iorveth was surprised to feel disappointment curling in his gut.

Had he really expected anything different from the man whose entire job was to hunt nonhumans? 

“Enough of this piss!” Roche snarled, “die!” The dh’oine threw a knife at Iorveth and he staggered to the side to avoid it, ordering his men to fire.

What a shame, for their rivalry to end like this.

Only Roche didn’t die. The sorceress turned the Scoia’tael’s arrows into butterflies and created a magic shield around the three dh’oine. The spell was apparently too much for the mage, and Roche rushed to her side as she collapsed into the Witcher’s arms.

Not that Iorveth cared, of course. Not that any of it mattered at all, because Vernon Roche would soon be dead. Iorveth gestured with his fingers and his men surged forward. They couldn’t shoot through the shield, but they could push through it themselves and fight with swords. 

As the Witcher fought his men off, Roche threw the sorceress over his shoulder, a hand indecently low on her back to hold her in place. 

Iorveth’s palm ached and he belatedly realized that he was clenching his fist tightly, fingernails digging into his skin. He forced himself to relax, forced himself to stay in place as Roche and his company retreated. 

This was the end, Iorveth knew. There was no way Roche could still love him after this. 

He watched the three dh’oine reach the Flotsam trading post and it was only when the kingslayer, Letho, stepped up next to him that it occurred to Iorveth that the two Witchers might be acquainted. But even as he asked, even as Letho murmured the answer, all Iorveth could think about was how utterly betrayed Roche had looked.

So much for ‘true love’.

* * *

There was something ironic about the Witcher claiming that Letho had betrayed him. It was a serious accusation – if Letho had attacked Iorveth’s second in command’s unit, then he was responsible for many elven deaths, and that was one thing Iorveth could never forgive. 

But instead of focusing on that, all Iorveth could think of was an old children’s rhyme,  _ what goes around comes around.  _ He’d betrayed Roche – even though he  _ hadn’t,  _ really, he didn’t owe Roche anything – and now he was the one betrayed. It was almost funny.

Almost.

The witcher claimed that Ciaran, Iorveth’s second in command, was still alive and detained on Flotsam’s prison barge. That just so happened to fit in nicely with Iorveth’s plans to requisition said barge.

After all, to join Saskia, Iorveth and his Scoia’tael would need to travel down the Pontar. 

The plan was almost ready to be acted upon. All they needed now was an opportunity.

Geralt, the witcher, provided that opportunity – in the most underhanded and despicable way possible, punching Iorveth in the throat instead of giving him his sword. Iorveth would get Geralt back for that at some point. 

Even though the witcher had turned out to be correct. Letho had betrayed him and many Scoia’tael in Aedirn would die because of his foolishness in trusting a dh’oine.  _ Damn him,  _ Iorveth snarled, not sure if he was referring to Letho, Geralt, or himself.

In the end, it hardly mattered. Geralt’s attack left Iorveth vulnerable and by the time he’d recovered, Roche was standing over him, sword leveled at his throat. Iorveth glared up at him, but there was no point in fighting. Not yet, at least. Without his weapons, he couldn’t do anything. Besides, if Roche took him to the Flotsam prison barge, then Iorveth would have an opportunity to both see Ciaran  _ and _ signal his men when it was time to attack.

“I yield,” Iorveth grit out, staring up at Roche’s furious expression. This was not how either of them had ever thought Iorveth would get caught. Perhaps Roche was as disappointed as he was that they wouldn’t have an appropriate showdown. After all, if their rivalry must end, it should end with a bang.

This felt more like a whimper.

But it wasn’t done yet, wouldn’t be done until Iorveth was sailing away from Flotsam with all his men, off to aid the dragonslayer’s cause. 

“Cover him,” Roche barked, and as his men trained their crossbows on Iorveth, Roche himself knelt down and began to tie Iorveth’s wrists and ankles. His touch was rough, bruising, and Iorveth couldn’t help his flinch, remembering the last time they had been so close. 

Somehow, he didn’t think Roche was going to mark his victory by stuffing rose petals into Iorveth’s mouth again. 

Unexpectedly, Roche gentled his touch, even checking that the ropes weren’t too tight. The knot would be a problem, though – complicated and multi-layered and so obviously human in its sloppy effectiveness.

“Up,” Roche ordered and Iorveth glared at him, rising to his feet as gracefully as he could when they were bound. Roche evaluated the slack, ensuring that Iorveth would still be able to walk but unable to run, then took the ends of the ropes securing Iorveth and tugged on them. “Move.”

Iorveth narrowed his eyes, reminded himself of the plan, and followed Roche with only the minimum amount of defiance. Couldn’t have Roche suspecting anything, after all.

Roche walked around Flotsam’s walls towards the docks rather than parading him through town like a trophy to be shown off, and Iorveth wondered if Roche was as disappointed as he was that this was how things would end between them. 

By the time they reached the prison barge, Iorveth’s jaw was tense from holding back things that shouldn’t be said. Then he stepped carefully down the stairs below deck and his breath left him in a horrified gasp.

Iorveth had hoped that he would find Ciaran here on the barge, but the condition the dh’oine had left his second in was worrisome. Iorveth pushed past Roche and walked as quickly as he could manage to Ciaran’s side. 

The dh’oine hadn’t even bothered to lock Ciaran in a cell, so sure were they that his wounds would do him in. Not to mention the beatings they surely added to it. 

“Move,” Roche ordered, something bitter in his tone. The dh’oine stood behind Iorveth, close enough that his knee pressed against Iorveth’s back.

_ “You  _ move,” Iorveth snarled, only shifting closer to his poor second. “Ciaran,” he called, moving his fingers to feel for Ciaran’s pulse.

It was thready and weak, but present. That was something, at least.

Roche sighed huffily, a big gust of air like he was demanding attention. Iorveth ignored him – until Roche turned to  _ his _ second and ordered her to find a healer.

“Can’t interrogate a corpse,” Roche said at her incredulous look, and Iorveth found himself almost grateful. If Roche’s healer could stabilize Ciaran, then Iorveth could order the attack on the barge and Ciaran would survive.

“In the meantime,” Roche continued,  _ “you _ get your own personal cell.” He nudged Iorveth in the back and Iorveth growled, only moving away from Ciaran when the Blue Stripes’ medic approached and immediately tsk’d and got to work.

Iorveth rose slowly, almost stumbling when Roche nudged him again. He sent an elbow back into Roche’s gut in response, but didn’t press his attack further, even when Roche groaned and bent forward slightly. Instead, he continued through the prison towards the single unoccupied cell. Stepping inside, he turned back to Roche with a defiant look, only to find Roche staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face.

“What?”

“Why?” Roche demanded, voice full of heartbreak and anguish and deep seated betrayal. 

Iorveth glanced at the medic hovering over Ciaran, then took a deep breath and held his head high. “Your king sought to eradicate my species. I did what was necessary.”

Roche was the one to flinch at that, and for a moment, Iorveth desperately wished that they were alone, that they could speak without regard for witnesses.

But perhaps it was for the best. After all, what was there left to say?  _ I’m not sorry I did it, but I hate that it took your love from me? I wish there had been another way?  _ Iorveth shook his head. He didn’t regret killing Foltest, and as for Roche’s alleged love…

Well, it would only have been a matter of time before Iorveth ruined it anyway. He already knew he was unloveable. He should really learn to stop hoping, stop dreaming, stop  _ wanting. _

Roche stared at him for a long moment, then turned sharply on his heels and marched back above deck. Iorveth pretended that nothing about his enemy turning away from him like wasn’t worth the attention hurt.

Nonetheless, being left alone was what Iorveth wanted. Now, all he had to do was signal his men that it was time to attack. 

* * *

“Iorveth!” Roche shouted, running straight at him with a sword at the ready. All across the ship’s deck, Scoia'tael and Temerian soldiers faced off – but while the Temerian soldiers were tipsy and off-guard, having been busy partying over their victory, Iorveth’s Scoia’tael were fresh and fierce.

Iorveth raised his own sword to meet Roche’s blow, gritting his teeth with the effort. Roche stepped in close to him, trying to force him back, but Iorveth refused to yield. The look on Roche’s face was still unreadable, Iorveth was a little annoyed that he didn’t seem glad that at least their enmity would end with a proper fight.

“You could have just said no,” Roche murmured, voice barely audible. “You didn’t have to – you didn’t have to kill him.”

Iorveth inhaled sharply, reeling at the implications of Roche’s words. The dh’oine really  _ had _ intended to proposition him. __

That shouldn’t make a difference. The rose had already told Iorveth about Roche’s feelings, even if he didn’t truly believe it. But that rose, once a bright vivid red, was now a pale pink, the edges of the petals turning brown. Even if Roche  _ had _ felt something for him, it was obviously gone now.

The rose of remembrance was tucked away in Iorveth’s armor and he was struck with the sudden urge to check it again, to see how much that love had faded. 

“I didn’t do it because of you,” Iorveth said, voice too genuine. He swallowed hard, pushed down everything he was feeling until there was nothing left but The Plan. “You’re the one who served a genocidal rapist.”

Roche’s eyes went wide, then narrowed quickly. “Foltest never–”

“He encouraged and facilitated the rape and murder of thousands of elves. Whether he ever did it himself does not change what he is.”

Roche looked as if he’d been slapped, his sword against Iorveth’s going slack. Iorveth took the opportunity presented before him and threw his sword aside to grab Roche bodily around the waist – and then throw him into the Pontar with a grand splash.

Iorveth lingered just long enough to ensure that Roche surfaced, sputtering and swearing wildly, then he turned with a smirk and ordered his men to set sail. They were finally on their way to Aedirn.


End file.
